I’m taking the short cut through the park when I see him, staring into the bushes, dog leash minus dog looped around his wrist. I stroll across, swishing leaves with the toes of my boots. I don’t like creeping up on people.
He doesn’t stir.
‘Lost your dog?’ I say.
I wonder if he’s hard of hearing, but very slowly, he rotates his head until we’re eye to eye. Just as slowly, he curves his mouth into a smile that stretches his lips into a thin line. Without answering, he turns away and resumes his examination of the undergrowth.
He’s there the following afternoon, the afternoon after. I try other conversational starters: squirrels, weather, the council refusing to clean out the pond. He ignores me with great politeness. I stand beside him, hands shoved in pockets, concentrate on the same spot. It’s just a bush: glossy leaves, no spider webs, nothing scurrying beneath. By the end of the week I can’t stand it any longer.
‘I don’t get it,’ I say.
He smiles his leisurely smile and holds out the dog leash. Nods encouragingly, so I take it. He closes his eyes. Just when I think he’s going to stay that way forever, he opens them and steps backwards. Turns around and strides away, picking up speed and disappearing into the trees. The dog leash is warm from his touch. I clutch it tight and stare into the bush. Children shout in the play area. Ducks quack on the pond. Magpies cackle. Little by little, the tide of sound goes out. It gets dark. It gets light again.
It might be hours, it might be days. A man appears beside me.
‘Lost your dog?’ he says.
I turn and smile, very slowly. He doesn’t understand, not yet. He will.
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First published in The Cabinet of Heed, Issue 16 (January 2019)
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